My Gal Sunday: A Twisted Kind of Love
by TesubCalle
Summary: Henry felt the woman give him a prod with Collins’ gun. In the moonlight he tried to catch Sunday’s eye. He raised the weapon and pointed it in her direction. They locked eyes for a few precious seconds.He forced his finger to squeeze the trigger.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: All 'My Gal Sunday' characters are owned by Mary Higgins Clark, publisher Simon & Schuster, and whoever else can legally lay claim to them. I am making zero dollars for this fanfiction. I am simply borrowing them (as usual) for my own twisted and nefarious purposes. (So kindly refrain from suing me.) Spoilers are a possibility in this story, so do yourself a favour and run out to your favourite bookstore or library and get 'My Gal Sunday' if you have not yet read it. To the un-initiated, I am not responsible if you find out details of plots in this fanfiction that you would rather not know – you've been warned. To reiterate: If you don't want stuff spoiled, I'm warning you that there are SPOILERS ahead, and you probably shouldn't read my inferior story before you read Mary's book. Clear as mud?? Good.

My Gal Sunday

A Twisted Kind of Love

**_January 2002_**

The pale winter sun that peeked through the curtains of the comfortable bedroom was barely enough to disturb the sleep of Henry Parker Britland IV and his wife of five years, member of Congress Sandra O'Brien Britland, whose now ineffaceable nickname was 'Sunday'.

Henry, former President of the United States, finally opened his eyes and stretched quietly, not wanting to disturb his still-slumbering spouse. Propping himself up on one elbow, Henry rolled over and gazed at Sunday, smiling at the thought that he was often captivated by her very presence so close to him. He reached out a hand and carefully brushed aside a stray strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face. The action, however, caused her to stir, and she opened her eyes. Smiling, she said "Good morning."

"Good morning," Henry replied. "I didn't mean to wake you. I apologize. But you see, there was this errant length of hair that was obscuring your lovely face." 

Laughing, Sunday replied "Henry, it's much too early in the day to be using such flattery. And I can't be that attractive without having brushed my hair and my teeth."

"You're attractive _any_ time of day, darling," Henry insisted, and kissed the top of her head to prove his affections. 

Sunday's words of admonition caused an unsettling memory to return to Henry at that point, and he let the kiss linger to convince himself that he still wasn't dreaming that she was with him. 

Almost five years earlier, the brother of a former client from her days as a public defender had abducted Sunday. He had lead Henry and numerous others on a wild goose chase for over 24 hours, and had almost succeeded in drowning Sunday in the Atlantic Ocean.

When they'd been reunited on the chilly, winter Long Beach Island shore, a shivering Sunday had tried to deter Henry from kissing her, at least not before she'd had a chance to brush her teeth. Henry had ignored her then and kissed her anyway, so very thankful that she hadn't been killed by her captor. 

"You're quiet all of a sudden…all out of words of adulation?" Sunday looked up at him, a teasing expression in her blue eyes.

"No," Henry replied slowly, "just counting my blessings, the biggest of which is my lovely wife." 

With all his wealth, prestige and accomplishments, Henry acknowledged that his marriage to Sunday was the best thing that had ever happened to him. When he had first been introduced to Sunday, Henry had felt like the man in the biblical parable that finds a priceless treasure and sells everything to obtain it. Henry hadn't had to sell anything to marry Sunday, but he felt he would gladly give it all up if it suddenly became the only way he could keep her. 

Henry sat up, and climbing out of bed said "I'll let Yves know he can start breakfast, and I'll bring in the papers and coffee." 

"Okay," Sunday yawned, "but I get dibs on the Post." 

She was, of course, referring to _The Washington Post_, which as a member of Congress, Sunday felt was definitely required reading.

"That's fine, darling," Henry replied, and left the room, humming ' Sunday Kind of Love'.


	2. The First Sorrow

2

As the couple ate in bed, Sunday was reminded that in a week she would have to be back in Washington for the 2nd convening of the 107th Congress. While she valued her role as Congresswoman, there were times she wished all her mornings could be spent with Henry, carefree and comfortable. This year would also be a Congressional election year, and Sunday was torn between whether she should run again or throw in the towel. She bit her lip when she realised it was trembling. A familiar ache stabbed at her heart, and she laid her fork to rest on the plate. 

Henry raised his glance from _The New York Times. _"Sunday," he said with a measure of concern in his voice, "what's the matter?"       "Henry," she whispered softly, his name almost catching in her throat. His eyes widened in comprehension. Tossing the paper aside and placing the dining tray on the floor, he gently gathered a now weeping Sunday in his arms. He felt his own eyes welling with tears as he tried to comfort his wife. 

A month earlier, some time before Christmas, Sunday had suffered a miscarriage. It was a devastating loss for the couple, as it would have been their much-anticipated first child. Sunday had blamed herself, believing her membership in Congress had been too stressful and that she had ignored the warning signs that she was getting too busy. Henry had tried to convince Sunday that it wasn't her fault, but knew that with her headstrong nature, it was a conclusion she would have to reach on her own, in time. 

Her sobs subsiding, Henry released Sunday, and she slid out of bed and went quietly into the master bathroom. He heard the noisy splashes of water in the sink, and realised Sunday must be washing her face. She's still angry at herself, he thought sadly, wiping away a tear that had escaped down his own cheek. She's angry at herself, and she won't let me help her.

Henry had suggested grief counselling for the two of them after they lost the baby, but Sunday had been against it, believing that the tabloids would have a field day. Henry had been surprised at that reaction, since she had taken all the media attention during their whirlwind courtship and marriage in stride. But then he realised that this time, the situation was different, and let Sunday try to tough out her grief on her own terms. 

Still it tore at his heart to see her in such emotional anguish. She had come close in previous years to losing her own life, and had almost lost her mother who had required by-pass surgery. Henry himself had lost both his parents and was an only child. But the loss of this life was different. It was the first taste of true, bitter pain, and Henry prayed for the strength to get through it somehow.

Sunday was standing in front of him. "I'm sorry," she said. Taking her hand and pulling her to him, Henry said "Shhh, darling. Don't be. You're allowed to grieve, Sunday. We have to support each other."

"I just didn't want to upset _you_," Sunday responded.

"This is a marriage, Sunday. We grieve together. You don't have to protect my feelings. Don't ever think you have to."

"I think…" Sunday started slowly, "I think we should see someone…"

"Are you sure?" Henry asked, surprised. "You're not concerned about what the media will do with this?"

"Let them do what they must. Henry, I just can't continue like this. We can't continue like this."

"Alright. I'll see about setting up something, then." Henry again kissed the top of her head, and continued to hold her.

(The First Sorrow)


	3. Love' Letters

3

Sunday was reviewing some information on a bill that was to be presented in next week's convening when Henry entered the vast study.

"I made some calls," he said. "I had a friend recommend someone to us. There's a guy in New York who's had his own experiences with grief and has recently begun to place more emphasis on helping people like us in his practice. What do you think?"

"Let's do it," Sunday said confidently, "you know I trust your judgments."

"Okay. I'll call him and make an appointment."

After Henry left, Sunday realised the words in front of her were making no sense. She had just read the same paragraph three times, and it had not yet engraved itself on her consciousness. Shutting her eyes for a moment, she felt a tight ball of anxiety clench in her stomach. 

"Oh God," she whispered silently in a half-hearted prayer, "what's happening to me? Please, just give me the strength to get through these next few months. I can't fall apart now. Henry needs me. My constituents need me…" Sunday placed the documents back in the folder and filed them away. She realised she simply could not concentrate on them now, and decided maybe she ought to just relax for the rest of the afternoon.

Ever since she was in her late teens and early twenties working her way through St. Peter's Jesuit College and later Fordham Law, Sunday knew she rarely took time to simply unwind. Of course, after law school had come seven years as a public defender, after which she had won her Congressional seat. Between her various activities with Henry and her work, Sunday knew she had a very hectic and dynamic life. Which is the main reason I blame myself for losing the baby, Sunday thought sadly. 

I wanted so much of everything, and I pursued what I wanted with all I had, and I accomplished everything. So why does being a mother have to be the most elusive of all? Sunday rose slowly from the swivel chair and decided to find Henry. He had just hung up the phone when she approached him, his face showing disappointment.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"The fellow in New York," Henry said, "has had some family difficulties of his own. Apparently his wife was recently hospitalized. He said he won't be taking on any new cases at this time until he can get things in order again."

"That's too bad," Sunday frowned. "We're going to really need someone flexible enough to accommodate my crazy schedule."

"I know. But he did recommend a colleague of his…name's Mark Greenberg."

"Okay, make an appointment with him, then."

"I will," Henry replied.

"And Henry…" Sunday continued, "would you consider coming out to Washington with me next week?"

"You don't want to be alone, do you?" he asked tenderly.

"I just don't want to be away from you right now," she said.

"I understand, darling. Of course I'll come."

"Thank you," she said. "Let me know when that appointment is."

"I will."

At that moment, Sims, the Britland family butler from the time Henry was ten years old entered the room.

"Sir, I thought you might wish to review the daily mail," he said, presenting his employer with a neat pile of envelopes.

"Thank you, Sims," Henry said, taking the mail from him. He sorted them, and handed Sunday the ones that bore her name, and keeping the ones that were addressed to him. Henry half smiled when he noted that one envelope was addressed to 'Mr. President Henry Parker Britland IV' written by hand in block capital letters. Probably a grade-school kid wanting to know something about the Presidency for a school project, he thought to himself.

Slipping a finger under the flap, Henry opened the letter and pulled out a single sheet of paper and began reading its contents.

After a few moments, Sunday noticed he was gripping the sheet rather tightly, a stony expression on his face.

"What is it, Henry?" she asked, with deep concern.

"This letter," he responded, voice flat and emotionless. "I must contact Des immediately, and get all our resources on this. CIA, Secret Service, FBI…"

"You're rambling, Henry. What's going on?" 

Henry held up the letter for Sunday to see. "Don't touch it," he warned, "I may have already inadvertently done irreversible damage to it as a piece of potential evidence. I'm warning, you, Sunday, you're not going to like what's in here."

The letter read:

'_My dearest Henry,_

_ When are you finally going to leave that tramp you married and come to me, your one true love? I have loved you forever my darling, and you know you love me just as deeply…perhaps even more. Can't you see that terrible woman is only using you? She used her position as a member of Congress to snake her way into your life. She's nothing but a pathetic gold-digger. You deserve so much better, my love._

_ What is it she can give you, Henry? She can't even give you a proper heir. She killed your baby, Henry. You know that, don't you? Can't you see she doesn't really love you? I can offer you so much more, Henry. And when we're married, we'll convince Congress to let you be President again. Our love will be so strong, and we'll have beautiful children together. We'll be the most beautiful First Family there has ever been. We'll make a dynasty of Britland Presidents, as I am sure our sons will follow in their father's footsteps. Oh, Henry, it will be wonderful!'_

Sunday could hardly keep from crying out in utter shock and disbelief. The letter continued, this time in a more sinister tone, as if the emotions of the writer had suddenly shifted.

_'I want to be with you, Henry. Unless you leave your wife, I'll have to convince you that we belong together. I'll have to kill her to break that evil spell she's cast over you. You'll thank me for rescuing you when she's dead, Henry, you'll see. Then I'll have to kill the president, too, if he refuses to leave his post for you. Henry, we must not let anyone get in the way of our love. You'll have to convince your Secret Service detail that you're truly in love with me. I'll be coming for you soon, Henry. You must keep our plans a secret for now. Promise me we'll be together forever, Henry, because if I can't have you, then no one will._

_ Your most sacred and worthy love,_

_ Gina Franklin'_

"Henry, this is madness!" Sunday exclaimed. "This – woman – she's threatening Desmond, and us, as well!"

"I know. Threats against the President - and former Presidents - of this country are simply not tolerated. I'm getting Jack Collins on the line right now." Jack Collins was head of the Secret Service team in charge of Henry and Sunday's security for the past five years.

"Don't worry," Henry tried to assure Sunday, "we'll find this woman. Nothing's going to happen to anyone, I promise." She looked at him uneasily, and he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. "Nothing's going to happen."


	4. The Search Begins

4.

The family practice of Drs. Hanson, Walsh and Lawrence were suddenly under the intense scrutiny of the various branches of U.S. law enforcement concerned with the safety of President Desmond Ogilvey, as well as former President Henry Britland, and member of Congress Sandra O'Brien Britland.

One Regina Franklin was found to be a resident of New Jersey, employed by Dr. Walsh as a receptionist. Once this came to light, Sunday mentioned that this family practice had been hers since she was a child, and that she had been in New Jersey visiting her parents when she suspected she was pregnant. Her suspicion was confirmed after consulting with Dr. Walsh, and it was now believed that his receptionist was one and the same 'Gina Franklin', author of the threatening letter. 

"It stands to reason that's how she was able to get your actual residential address, Henry," Jack Collins said to his charge. "Note that it wasn't forwarded to you from Washington, or any other obvious governmental department. It was sent directly to Drumdoe. All this 'Gina Franklin' had to do was take the address straight off the forms Sunday would have filled out at during her appointment."

Henry sat with his hands clasped together, thumbs supporting his chin. "You're right, Collins…I hadn't even thought of that. What have background checks on this woman turned up?"

"Absolutely nothing, unfortunately," Collins said with obvious disappointment, "not even a speeding ticket. But regardless of her squeaky-clean background, this letter is quite damning. The Bureau has just secured a warrant; Regina Franklin will be in custody within the hour."

"Good," Henry sighed, "I want this to be over as quickly as possible."

"We all do, sir," Collins said in agreement.

The Federal Agents assigned the task of tracking Regina Franklin at her place of employment would be disappointed. Entering the premises, they were informed by the receptionist on duty that Mondays were Regina's days off.

Special Agent Anthony Seitz could not mistake the look of curiosity on the young woman's face that was presently sitting at the admittance desk.

"Yeah, she's here on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays," she cheerily informed Agent Seitz, "I'm here all the other days."

"Thank you…Kelly," Agent Seitz replied, eyeing the young woman's nametag. He turned to his partner, Special Agent Gary Flint and quietly asked him to put in a call to the team assigned the duty of tracking Regina Franklin at her place of residence.

"Tell them to be on the lookout for her there," he suggested. Agent Flint nodded, and removed a cell phone to place the call.

"May I have a few words with Dr. Walsh, Kelly?" Agent Seitz asked.

"Well, he's with a patient right now, Agent Seitz," she responded with noticeable emphasis, clearly enjoying the exchange, "perhaps you'd be willing to wait for a few more minutes?"

"That will be fine. Page him, and let him know we're here, please."

"Of course, Agent Seitz," Kelly said indulgently, and picked up the receiver.

Agent Seitz turned to face his partner and rolled his eyes. If there was one thing that annoyed him, it was dealing with ditsy people who clearly watched too much television, and were excited beyond belief when they became part of any kind of police investigation. He suspected Kelly was such a person, even if she wasn't exhibiting all the full-blown symptoms.

"So," Kelly said after paging Dr. Walsh, clearly directing her words at the agents, "what's Regina done?"

Agent Seitz turned to face her and said, "I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you, I'm afraid."

"Ah, top secret, right?" Kelly said, winking. Agent Seitz tried his utmost to conceal his indignation.

"She's just been implicated in some pretty nasty business, that's all," Agent Flint offered, having just ended his phone conversation. "We just need to know that she's not into something over her head."

Kelly looked at him with wide eyes. "Hey – she's not in any _real_ trouble is she?"

"She might be," Agent Flint responded, "that's why we're looking for her."

"Well, she's only been here for like, two months!" Kelly exclaimed, then lowered her voice to take on a more hushed tone: "She hasn't been messing with patient files, has she? I heard about a case down in Florida where some lady was taking confidential patient files and blackmailing the doctor's clients!"

Agent Seitz raised a hand to stop Kelly's onslaught. "It's not that," he said crisply, trying to maintain a low profile in an attempt to keep the people in the waiting area from becoming more curious than they already were.

Taking some offense to his tone Kelly said: "Do you guys even have a _warrant_? I don't wanna be saying anything that could land Regina in trouble. I know you FBI guys go digging for information from people who think they have an obligation to tell you everything! I'm not dumb – I don't have to tell you anything at all if I don't want to!"

"Yes, we have a warrant; and don't worry, nothing you've said here is of any great importance at this time," Agent Flint said coolly, knowing that his partner was irked by the young woman's diatribe.

Just then an elderly-looking man dressed in a white coat entered the reception area.

"Kelly, you said the _FBI_ was here to see me?" he said with an edge of incredulity.

"Dr. Walsh, I presume?" Agent Seitz queried, stepping forward.

"Yes," the doctor answered hesitantly.

"I'm Special Agent Seitz – this is Special Agent Flint. Don't be alarmed; we'd just like to ask you a few questions about one of your employees – Regina Franklin."

Dr. Walsh seemed to relax noticeably. "Regina? What would you like to know? And please, try to make this as brief as possible, I have patients waiting." 

"We'll only be a few minutes, I promise, Dr. Walsh. Is there a place we can speak privately?" Agent Seitz asked, eyeing the now very interested patients in the waiting room, who were whispering excitedly to each other.

"We could step into my examining room," the older man suggested. 

"That will be fine," Agent Seitz said. The two agents followed the doctor down a short hall and turned into the first room on the left. A vaguely nauseating antiseptic smell seemed to permeate the air.

"Look, Regina's pretty new here," Dr. Walsh stated. "I don't really know how much help I can be."

"Your other receptionist – Kelly – said Regina has been here for about two months. Is that correct?" Agent Seitz asked.

"That's about right," Dr. Walsh responded.

"And during that time, did she seem at all disturbed, depressed, or exhibit any kind of odd behaviour?" Agent Flint asked.

"Odd behaviour?" repeated Dr. Walsh, "not that I ever could see."

"How would you rate her performance as a receptionist?" asked Agent Seitz.

"Regina's very professional, competent and even sociable, Agent Seitz. I really have not had any problems with her whatsoever for the two months she's been here. I have to admit I'm quite surprised she's under investigation."

"I see," said Agent Seitz. "I'd like to ask you for a copy of the resume and reference letters Regina sent you when she applied for this position, if that's alright, doctor,"

"Certainly," Dr. Walsh said, "anything to help out, though I doubt it will be of any real use. Regina's not the kind I would associate with criminal activities. Just out of curiosity, exactly _why_ is Regina under investigation, Agent Seitz?"

Agent Seitz decided to be up-front with Dr. Walsh. "We suspect her of writing a threatening letter against President Desmond Ogilvey. A warrant has been issued for her arrest."

"How distressing!" Dr. Walsh exclaimed. "For her sake, I hope you're all mistaken. But anyway, on the way out, I'll have Kelly make those copies you wanted. Are there any other questions, agents?"

"None at this time, Dr. Walsh. Thank you for your time." Agent Seitz shook Dr. Walsh's hand and exited the room with his partner behind him.

Buckling himself into the service car after obtaining the requested files, Agent Flint said: "Something doesn't feel right about all this,"

"I feel the same way," Agent Seitz replied with a frown. "Do you think we're chasing the wrong suspect?"

"Well, once we have this Regina Franklin in custody, it will be a pretty cut-and-dried case of comparing the handwriting in the letter and samples of her own. If the lab lands a match, we've got our woman."

"Then let's hope our guys pick her up at her home. Last thing we need is this nut-case acting out on her psycho fantasies."

"_If_ it's her," Agent Flint countered. "But for President Ogilvey's sake, I really hope it is."

"For Mr. Britland and his wife, too," Agent Seitz murmured. "Let's not forget they were targeted in that letter as well."


	5. The Wrong Suspect?

5  
  
27-year-old Regina Franklin usually liked to sleep in on her days off, and today was no exception. When she finally forced herself out of bed around noon, Regina decided a little housekeeping was in order. She'd been neglecting her laundry for a while now, and knew that she'd need a clean wardrobe for the new workweek. Much time was wasted in her small apartment complex's laundry room waiting for a washing and drying machine to become available to do the four loads she'd accumulated over the past two weeks.  
  
"That's the last time I put off doing this for over two weeks," she muttered to herself as she carried the last load of dried clothes back to her own apartment. As she approached her door, she noticed two rather serious-looking and well-dressed men about to knock there.  
  
"Can I help you?" she asked. The two men turned to face Regina.  
  
"That's her," one said.  
  
"Regina Franklin?" the other questioned.  
  
"Yes…" she responded, slightly uneasy, "and you are?"  
  
"I'm Special Agent Thomas Everton, and this is Agent Al Cortez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation… Please put down the laundry basket and remain where you are, placing your hands where we can see them."  
  
"Whoa…oh – my…o-okay," Regina stammered, and lowered the basket to the ground at her feet, a very startled expression on her face.  
  
"Regina Franklin," Agent Everton intoned as he approached her, "you are under arrest for the alleged authoring of a letter threatening the lives of President Desmond Ogilvey, Henry Britland, and Sandra O'Brien Britland."  
  
"What?!" Regina's reaction was one of incredulity.  
  
"You have the right to remain silent," stated Agent Everton as he continued to recite the Miranda warning, handcuffing what was to him a surprisingly cooperative suspect.  
  
***  
  
Jack Collins snapped his cell phone shut. He turned to Henry and said: "They have her in custody,"  
  
"Thank God," Henry sighed.  
  
"But there is one problem," Collins continued. "They're not positive she wrote the letter. As you know, no fingerprints were found on the envelope or the letter itself, and the stamp appears to have been moistened with water and not saliva." Henry nodded at his colleague.  
  
"The only thing we have going for us right now is the handwriting. They're going to be comparing a sample right now. And let me tell you, Henry, if it doesn't match up, you, Sunday and Des are going to be under much more careful watch. We're not taking any chances with this one."  
  
"Has the FBI got anything in regards to a psychological profile from the contents of the letter?" Henry asked.  
  
"Yes, and that's part of the reason they're starting to doubt that the woman they presently have in custody is the author of the letter. She's not matching the profile at all."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Our buddies at Quantico pegged the author as a single, white female, from twenty-nine to forty; an introvert and a loner who is possibly susceptible to delusions, and has difficulty maintaining meaningful and lasting relationships, romantic or otherwise. She may also have problems holding down a permanent job, and may look for work where her superiors are in positions of esteem in the community so she can feel a part of something important, but she feels incapable of achieving any kind of greatness herself."  
  
"Greatness by association?"  
  
"Something like that, I guess," Collins replied. "Which is probably why she has her sights set on you, Henry. I needn't remind you that aside from your former position of power, before you married Sunday you were considered one of America's most eligible bachelors. You know that still makes you a prime target for all those kooks out there."  
  
Henry sighed and kneaded his temples. "We really don't need this right now."  
  
"Does trouble ever come at a good time?"  
  
"I suppose not," Henry replied wryly. "Keep me posted, Collins. Though I'm starting to sense we may be owing this Regina Franklin an apology."  
  
Sunday felt mostly responsible for the arrest of receptionist Regina Franklin. It had all made perfect sense, of course, in the beginning. After all, Sunday had written her residential address on the admittance forms, and the letter had been signed with a name apparently belonging to one of Dr. Walsh's staff. But now Sunday felt compelled to set things perfectly straight, and asked to see the prime suspect, who was still in custody pending the results of a handwriting analysis. Perhaps she could visually identify the suspect as being the one who received her at the office.  
  
It was a long shot, but if it turned out that Regina Franklin did not actually write the letter, it wasn't an indication she wasn't still the originator of the threats behind it. She could always have gotten someone else to write it, making that 'someone else' think it was meant as a joke, mused Sunday.  
  
Receiving permission to visit the suspect, Sunday, Henry, Collins and the two other Secret Service agents assigned to them that day, entered the New Jersey field office that Regina Franklin was being held.  
  
Peering into the interrogation room where Regina Franklin quietly sat, Sunday shook her head.  
  
"I have never seen that woman in my life."  
  
"Sunday, are you sure?" Henry asked.  
  
"I'm positive, Henry. The woman at the reception desk that day was a redhead. This woman is a brunette, and is slimmer, too. It's not her."  
  
The door to the room opened, and an FBI agent walked in. "Excuse me, but the results of the handwriting analysis just came back negative. The suspect is going to be released without further delay."  
  
"Then I guess we're back to square one," muttered Collins.  
  
"Not necessarily," Henry said. "How many people work in those offices? And how many of them have access to patient files?"  
  
"I'm sure the Bureau has looked into that, Henry," Collins said. "As it stands, the woman sitting in there was the best lead. Now that's been shot to hell."  
  
Sunday and Henry made it a point to intercept Regina in the hallway as she was being released. Sunday could see the look of utter relief on her face. It was an expression that mirrored the look her clients from her public defender days sometimes got on the occasion that they were found not guilty.  
  
"Regina?" Sunday said as she neared the younger woman.  
  
"Yes ? – oh, Congresswoman Britland! And Mr. Presi – I guess you're just…Mr…Britland now…"  
  
" 'Henry' will do, Regina," he assured her.  
  
"Regina, we want to apologize. You've been dragged into something rather terrible, and I am convinced you had nothing to do with this case," Sunday stated.  
  
"You know, I am so relieved!" Regina said. "I kept thinking it was some kind of joke, or prank, or something! But then it's pretty early for an April Fool's Day gag, isn't it."  
  
"Have you any idea why someone would sign your name, or make it appear that you wrote those threats?" Sunday asked.  
  
"They asked me that in there," Regina replied, nodding back in the direction of the interrogation room, "and I really have no clue. Look, I've only been with Dr. Walsh for about two months. I haven't gotten that familiar with all of his clients yet, and me and the other receptionist hardly ever see each other since we don't work on the same days."  
  
Henry suddenly thought of something. "You said there's another receptionist?"  
  
Regina nodded. "Her name's Kelly Hart. I hear she's been there for a while."  
  
"Henry," Sunday said, "she would have the same amount of access to patient files as Regina."  
  
"That's right, she would," the young woman confirmed.  
  
"This may be very important, Regina…Can you think of any reason why Kelly might want to set you up for something like this?"  
  
"Look, I hardly know her at all. And what I do know is that she's a bit…well, ditsy," Regina seemed a little reluctant to admit her thoughts about the other receptionist.  
  
"Can you describe her?" Sunday asked.  
  
"She's your generic airhead blonde, to put it bluntly," Regina said.  
  
Sunday could feel disappointment seeping in. Another dead end. Were they truly so far off-base?  
  
"Thanks for helping us out here, Regina," Henry said to her.  
  
"Mr. Brit – Henry, sir, I'm just totally glad they believe I didn't do it! Anything I can do to help you catch the person responsible for putting us all through this grief, is my pleasure."  
  
"A suggestion, though," Sunday said, "watch out for TV cameras parked outside your apartment. Your arrest is the story of the day."  
  
Regina groaned. "And I thought doing laundry all afternoon was a pain!"  
  
It was scarcely two hours later at Drumdoe that Jack Collins received a call on his cell phone from Agent Seitz. After listening for a few moments, he said: "I'll get him on the line…Henry," Collins turned to Henry, "Agent Seitz needs to speak with you, now."  
  
Henry grabbed the cellular phone from Collins.  
  
"Hello, Agent Seitz… You have what? Where was it found?…" By now Sunday, who was nearby had her curiosity piqued and was listening to Henry intently, trying to glean any kind of pertinent information, but the one- sided nature of the conversation made it difficult for her to follow.  
  
"And you're sure there's nothing potentially harmful or hazardous in it," Henry said, maintaining control over his voice. "I'll be there immediately."  
  
On the other end of the conversation, Agent Seitz was holding another envelope, found on a bench outside a courthouse, addressed once again to 'Mr. President Henry Parker Britland IV'. It was fortunately dealt with by local authorities who immediately turned it over to the FBI.  
  
Handing Collins his phone, Henry informed them that he had to return to the field office where another letter bearing his name was awaiting him.  
  


***  
  


"We've already checked the envelope for prints, Mr. Britland," Agent Seitz informed him, but we'd like to you wear some gloves in case there's anything on the piece of paper inside."  
  
"I understand," Henry said, as he arrived at the field office. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Henry gingerly slipped a letter-opener under the flap and slowly withdrew another single sheet of paper. This time the letter was typewritten, and printed using some kind of laser printer. It read:  
  
  
  
Henry,  
  
I can see I'll have to convince you of my love. Regina was a test. You don't trust me. That's why you had the FBI go after Regina, isn't it. I knew they would all think it was Regina. But she deserved to be punished, anyway.  
  
Oh how I wish you could believe me when I say I love you. But don't worry. Soon all you'll have is me, and that woman you married won't even be a distant memory. We'll start building our own memories. We'll be together very soon, I promise, and if we're not allowed to be together, I know deep inside you'd prefer not to live without me, as I cannot live without you, either.  
  
/\/\/\/


	6. The New Suspect?

6  
  
Dr. James Walsh was feeling quite troubled on his drive home from his office. Knowing that one of his employees had been arrested didn't sit well with him at all. The latest news on the radio revealed that the FBI no longer considered Regina a suspect and had released her, which was a good thing. Still it puzzled him how such a bizarre connection could have been made to his quiet practice. Who would want to threaten the President, Mr. and Mrs. Britland, and then let Regina take the fall for it? It didn't make sense.  
  
It seemed to Dr. Walsh that as of late, he had little luck with the people he hired. He had hired Regina to replace another young woman who just wasn't working out in the position. When he had been about to break it to her that he was going to terminate her employment, she had proclaimed she was quitting. Regina Franklin had been a Godsend, really. She was capable, professional, and friendly with the clients. Michelle Wilson, the woman who had quit, had been neglectful and incompetent, sometimes even rude. She'd actually lost a few patient files once, failing to notice they had fallen into a wastebasket. A janitor had been forced to dig through the dumpster to retrieve them.  
  
If the FBI had asked which of those three receptionists I felt was most likely to pull a stunt like that, thought Dr. Walsh, I'd have picked Michelle. But she was completely harmless…wasn't she? Dr. Walsh tried to recall if she had ever talked about having a boyfriend, or any friends, for that matter. He realised he could remember very little about her, if anything at all. As he pulled into his driveway, Dr. Walsh wondered if he had an obligation to tell Agent Seitz about Michelle. But what would that accomplish? Michelle didn't even know Regina. Or did she? And if she did, why would she possibly frame Regina?  
  
  
  
Special Agents Seitz and Flint were going over details of the psychological profile for the fiftieth time that evening.  
  
"Notice how she only mentions Henry by name," Agent Flint said, looking again at the first letter. "It would seem to indicate that she thinks Congresswoman Britland and President Ogilvey are expendable and only Henry is important."  
  
Seitz nodded.  
  
"She also reiterates that she doesn't think Henry would want to live if they're apart - in this second letter."  
  
"There's one thing that confuses me, though," Seitz broke in. "In the first letter, she asks: _'When are you finally going to leave that tramp you married and come to me, your one, true love?'_ but later she says: _'I'll be coming for you soon, Henry. You must keep our plans a secret for now'_. It's like she's gotten herself mixed up about what she wants. Does she want Henry to come to her, or is she going to him?"  
  
"I get the feeling this first letter was, as she says in the second letter, _'a test'_. Which means Mr. Britland, his wife, and the President are in a lot of potential danger. The arrest of Regina is a sign to the actual author of what would have happened to her. In her mind, Henry has betrayed her." Agent Flint mused.  
  
"Damn it, I wish we had more to go on!" Seitz exclaimed, pounding the desk.  
  
"What do you think these are?" Flint suddenly asked, pointing to the second letter that had been found.  
  
"You mean this junk at the end of the message?" Seitz asked.  
  
"Yes, this front slash, back slash stuff…"  
  
"I just assumed it indicated 'end of message'," Seitz responded.  
  
"Or printer error," Flint said.  
  
"What would cause a printer to screw up like that?"  
  
"I don't know…maybe it's some kind of weird signature or something. After all, the first letter was signed." Flint suggested.  
  
"Yeah, but it was signed for a reason – to frame Regina Franklin." Seitz pointed out.  
  
"But surely the author must know Mr. Britland needs some kind of clue as to her identity," Flint said.  
  
"You forget we're dealing with a delusional. If she decides Henry knows who she is and that he also loves her passionately, then to her, that's the way it really is."  
  
"Gotta love these crackpots," Flint shook his head. "Look, there's nothing more we can really do at this point. The Britlands are driving home with their Secret Service detail, and the President is being treated like a he's in a maximum security prison. Let's give it a rest and let the guys at Quantico take over this head-shrinking stuff for the night, okay?"  
  
"I'm with you on that one."  
  
As soon as Agent Seitz stood, his cell phone rang. Raising an eyebrow, he removed it from his jacket pocket and answered.  
  
"Agent Seitz," he said.  
  
"Yes, hello Agent Seitz, this is Dr. Walsh…We spoke earlier? You left your card with my receptionist on your way out this afternoon."  
  
"That's right," the agent responded, "is there something I can do for you?"  
  
"Well, maybe," paused Dr. Walsh. "I don't know how much help this is going to be to you, if it counts as a 'lead' as you call it, but – perhaps you'd like to check on a former employee of mine."  
  
"Why should I want to do that?"  
  
"It didn't occur to me until later, but my past receptionist was a little…flaky."  
  
More flaky than that Kelly Hart? Agent Seitz thought, but could feel his heart beating faster. We all stupidly thought it was someone currently working for Dr. Walsh, but nobody stopped to think that Mrs. Britland was admitted by someone who no longer works there!  
  
"What is this person's name, Dr. Walsh?"  
  
"Michelle Wilson. She just didn't work out, I'm afraid, and when I was going to fire her, she told me she was quitting…and I don't ever recall her taking personal calls at work, or talking about friends or relationships. I think, maybe, she could be unbalanced enough to do something like this."  
  
"Thanks, Dr. Walsh," Agent Seitz said, "your help here is greatly appreciated."  
  
"Dr. Walsh?" Agent Flint asked after his partner had ended the conversation.  
  
"Yes. He said he had his suspicions about a former employee of his. Her name's Michelle Wilson."  
  
"Hmm…Michelle Wilson?" mused Agent Flint. "Wait a minute…let me see that second letter!"  
  
"What about it?" Seitz asked, sliding it to his partner.  
  
"Look…these markings we were talking about just now…front slash, back slash, front slash, back slash and so on. See?"  
  
"It looks like an 'M' joined to a 'W'," observed Agent Seitz.  
  
" 'M W' for 'Michelle Wilson'!" exclaimed Agent Flint. "It _is_ a signature of sorts!"  
  
"We need to get a warrant and an APB for this woman right now," Seitz scrambled from the desk. "We need to get to this Wilson woman before she gets to the President or the Britlands."  
  
                                            * * *  
  
Sunday pulled her dark wool coat closer around her as they stepped out into the crisp, night winter air. They climbed into the backseat as agents Jack Collins and Derek Mendel slid into the driver's and passenger seats respectively. Henry was unusually silent as they left the field office parking lot heading for Drumdoe, their home, with two other Secret Service agents on follow-up detail not far behind in another car.  
  
Several long minutes passed in silence until Sunday could no longer stand it, and she rolled up the partition separating them from Collins and Mendel for privacy to speak to Henry.  
  
"Something's eating at you," she stated, "and I can tell it's more than just the fact that you're worried about our safety in this matter."  
  
"I was thinking that there must be something we're overlooking," he said finally.  
  
"Henry, we just assumed it was one of Dr. Walsh's employees because it made sense under the circumstances… Maybe I was just wrong about the receptionist being a red-head. Maybe this 'Kelly' was actually a redhead and went blonde just before Regina started working there, who knows?"  
  
"Regina said she started working for Dr. Walsh about two months ago, right?" Henry asked.  
  
"Yes, that's what she said." Sunday replied.  
  
"So that means she started working around the beginning of November last year," Henry mused aloud. "When exactly was it you went to Dr. Walsh to confirm the pregnancy?"  
  
"Just at the end of October," Sunday said. "It was just before Halloween. I remember because the office was decorated with pumpkins and cobwebs and such stuff…I feel so terrible. That alone should have exonerated Regina. She wasn't even working for Dr. Walsh when I went for my appointment."  
  
"Be that as it may," Henry began, "even though she's officially off the list of suspects, really anyone can go digging into patient files to get the pertinent information they're seeking. Break into the office, hack the computers…it's not impossible…"  
  
"You think the person threatening us could be someone that has been to – or secretly been inside Dr. Walsh's office over the past two months, then?"  
  
"It's a tenuous connection, but I'd have to say 'yes' because of Regina, because the second letter specifically mentioned the need to punish her. Maybe Regina upset a client. Forgot to schedule an appointment, was rude, something, and now they're trying to get back at her, I don't know…"  
  
"You're grasping at straws Henry," Sunday said.  
  
"Maybe…But what I'd actually like to know is, why was Regina hired two months ago? She must have been replacing someone…A past employee would certainly know his or her way around the office…"  
  
"Why would a past employee want to frame Regina? They wouldn't even have known her. The second letter clearly states 'she deserved to be punished', which to me signifies familiarity…"  
  
Henry was about to reply when the car came to a sudden, screeching halt.


	7. Night Ride Home

7.  
  
  
  
A team of Federal agents swarmed an apartment that was the listed address of one Michelle Wilson. Getting no answer after repeated calls at her door, Agent Seitz had the landlord open the door. Charging inside, the rooms were quickly searched for occupants. All were found to be empty.  
  
"She's not here," Agent Flint said dejectedly to his partner, with more than a hint of added irritation in his voice as he re-holstered his weapon.  
  
"That's what worries me," his partner replied. "We still haven't been able to reach Jack Collins on his cell phone, and the Britland's butler maintains they have not arrived home yet. Something's clearly wrong here."  
  
"They left the field office two hours ago," Seitz snapped. "They should have been home by now."  
  
"Agent Seitz; Agent Flint!" called a voice from one of the rooms.  
  
Both agents entered the room where another agent was staring at a room filled with newspaper and magazine clippings pinned to the walls.  
  
"What is _this_?" Agent Flint growled under his breath.  
  
The clippings all had one thing in common: Henry Parker Britland IV. The pieces of paper ranged in age from the time of Henry's second term to present-day. From a desk, Agent Seitz withdrew several thick folders, where photocopied pages held articles and pictures from the time of Henry's first presidential term to present-day. Many of them were from out-of-state publications.  
  
Upon closer inspection of all the newspaper and glossy magazine pictures of Henry, the faces of two particular individuals when appearing with Henry were angrily scratched out. Sometimes they were cut out of the image entirely, or blotted out with a black marker. The two individuals, the agents guessed, were member of Congress Sandra 'Sunday' O'Brien Britland, and President Desmond Ogilvey.  
  
                                               ***  
  
Jack Collins eyed Derek Mendel knowingly as the partition between them and the backseat slowly crept up. Whenever that happened, they all knew serious discussions would be taking place between the former President and his member of Congress wife. 

Collins felt very uneasy for Henry and Sunday. He had learned very early to take his job as head of security for the former head of state very seriously. Some, perhaps, would have considered it a lesser job without much glory or importance. He also knew that in about four years, Henry and Sunday would no longer be protected by the Secret Service, for five years ago it had been legislated that protection only be provided ten years after a President leaves office – legislation Sunday herself had been a part of as a member of Congress. But until then, Collins swore, he'd do everything in his power to make sure nothing happened to either of them.  
  
As he drove, he recalled those unsettling twenty-four hours that occurred near the start of his position protecting Henry and Sunday - the twenty-four hours where four of his agents were left incapacitated but luckily not seriously harmed in their cars while Sunday was abducted. Collins had had an awful, sinking feeling that he had somehow failed, and that the situation would not resolve itself on a positive note. He had never admitted it to Henry, but when they first received word that Sunday had been kidnapped, he honestly thought she would not be found alive, if she was found at all. And it would be all his fault. True, he wasn't even in either the car Sunday had been in or the follow-up car, but somehow, as the Agent in charge, he knew he would carry the guilt.  
  
Collins, out of habit, kept checking his rear-view mirror as he continued to head towards Drumdoe, and he knew Mendel was constantly checking his passenger-side mirror as well. The follow-up vehicle with agents Jerome Ashton and Chris Harrington were never more than a few car-lengths behind.  
  
I want this to be over now, Collins thought to himself, as he approached the turn-off into the wooded area on a private road that lead through to the Britland's extensive property. The car's headlights cut neat beams as he made the turn along the road, and brightened the trees they passed along the way.  
  
From between the trees on the right side of the road suddenly sprang a figure, desperately waving its arms, and throwing itself directly in the path of the car. Jack cursed and slammed both feet onto the brake pedal. The car came to a stop a mere inch from the person Collins could now make out as a woman. Before he could catch his breath from having the seatbelt constrict across his chest, the woman was at his window, a gun drawn, pointing at his head…


	8. Don't Go To Strangers

**8**.

Jack Collins stared at the woman, who was dressed in a black ski jacket and had a black woolen hat over her head. His eyes moved from her face to her weapon, which was pointed dangerously at his head. He heard the follow-up car come to a screeching halt behind them, and the armed interloper gave them a command.

"I want everyone to toss their weapons, cell phones or pagers out of their windows to me now, or I will shoot the driver of this car where he sits!"

In the backseat, Henry and Sunday heard these muffled instructions and stared at each other in shock. 

"Henry," Sunday whispered anxiously. He looked at her with an equally anxious expression, but placed a reassuring hand on hers. 

Agents Jerome Ashton and Chris Harrington also exchanged nervous glances at the sight of the woman brandishing a gun and threatening to shoot Collins. Should they comply with the woman's instructions?

"Collins," Henry whispered as loudly as he dared as he lowered the partition a crack, "you must do as she says. I believe this to be the woman who's been threatening us."

"Which is precisely why I can't do that, sir, and you know I can't," Collins whispered back through clenched teeth.

A loud bang shattered the night silence and the occupants of all the cars jumped at the sudden, unexpected sound. Jack Collins felt a blazing pain shoot through his left shoulder, and realised he had been shot. 

"_That's_ for wasting my time!" the woman shouted angrily. "Now, do as I say, everyone, or I swear the next one goes through his head!"

"Collins!" Henry whispered urgently, "just please do as she says. Trust me!"

His vision getting hazy, Collins looked at the woman through the now broken driver's side window. He slowly opened the door and tossed both his and Mendel's weapons and cell phones to the road. Upon seeing this action, Ashton and Harrington followed suit.

The woman kicked the phones into the brush on the side of the road, bent down and picked up the weapon Collins had discarded, then approached the tinted backseat window.

"I know you're there, Henry, my love. I want both you and the woman you call your wife to come out now." The word 'wife', Sunday noted, was full of bitter sarcasm.

Sunday tightened her grip on Henry's hand and he gave her another reassuring squeeze. "You know she'll kill us if we don't get out," she said softly. "The two of us have a better chance outside. We're sitting ducks in here."

Henry nodded and slid his hand into the door handle and pulled it open. The woman's lips twitched in anticipation, and eventually broke into a wide smile, which immediately changed to a scowl as Sunday slid out behind Henry. The look of utter contempt and hatred on her face sent chills down Sunday's spine, and was convinced for a moment that she would be killed right then and there. 

As the woman moved behind them when they stood up outside, her gun trained on their backs, Sunday could almost swear she caught a glimpse of a lock of red hair slipping out from under her hat. _Heaven help us, it _is_ the woman from Dr. Walsh's office!_ Sunday thought frantically.

"Move," the woman commanded, "into the woods. Try anything and you're both dead." Henry and Sunday could do nothing but obey. As they crossed the road, the woman called out a warning to the agents. "If any one of you tries to follow us, I'll put a bullet in both their brains!"

As they walked on, from behind them they heard the woman breathing heavily, accompanied by odd clicking noises, as if she were fiddling with something metallic. They continued walking for several minutes, and Henry and Sunday realised the woman was directing them to a particular clearing in the wooded area they were familiar with. They glanced again at each other uneasily, and both knew that the same question was racing through their minds: _Just how well did this woman know their property?_

_***_

"Stop here," the woman called out when they finally reached the clearing. "Turn around," she commanded. Obeying, Henry and Sunday turned and saw that the woman chose to remain quite a few paces behind them. In the pale moonlight, they saw her flash Henry another large smile.

"_You _stay put", the woman icily commanded Sunday, "and I want _you_ to come here, Henry," she said, gun still pointing at them. Giving Sunday's hand a final squeeze, he slowly approached the woman. As he neared, she placed her free hand around the back of his neck and drew his face to hers and kissed him deeply. The first thing that registered on Henry's mind was that the gun was pressed against his chest. Then he became conscious to the fact that his lips were still locked with this strange woman's, and instinctively knew that if he showed any signs of resistance or repulsion, it would mean a death sentence for him and Sunday. 

Finally the woman withdrew and inhaled deeply. She smiled at Henry again and said: "I knew you loved me, Henry darling, I knew it. I'm sorry I had to shoot your Secret Service agent, but I think you know I had to. He would have prevented us from being together."

Sunday had clenched her fists together tightly as she watched Henry being kissed by the crazy woman. What was she telling him now? She wished she could make out their words, but they were a little too far away. 

"Henry," the woman said, "I want you to do something for me." She reached into her ski jacket pocket and withdrew Collins' weapon. 

"What do you want me to do?" Henry asked. 

"Prove you love me," she responded. 

Henry stared at her quizzically.

"Turn around," the woman said. Henry complied, feeling the barrel of Collins' gun in the small of his back. He saw Sunday rooted to the spot she had been instructed to remain, and noted the worry in her eyes. He felt cold metal in his right hand. He looked down and saw the woman had placed her own weapon there.

"Prove you really love me," she repeated, "by killing the woman who forced you to marry her." A wave of overwhelming dread swept through Henry. 

"I know it is something you have always wanted to do," the woman continued, "especially after she killed your baby. But revenge is not something a wonderful man like you would try, which is why I had to bring you out here. It will be okay out here, Henry, where only you and me will know what happened. Just imagine, darling, after she's dead, we'll be free to love each other!"

Henry became light-headed for a moment and felt bile rising in his throat. He swallowed with much difficulty in an attempt to control himself. Never before had he felt such tension. As President he had experienced many extremely stressful situations. None felt quite so dire as this. 

Henry felt the woman give him a prod with Collins' gun. If he did not carry out this final instruction…In the moonlight he tried to catch Sunday's eye. He raised the weapon and pointed it in her direction. They locked eyes for a few precious seconds. He hoped she understood…He forced his finger to squeeze the trigger.

Sunday flinched as she heard the sound of the weapon fire, and sudden comprehension dawned on her. She slipped slowly to her knees, fell to the cold ground and did not move.


	9. Lesson In Survival A Sunday Kind of Love

9.

"We can't call for backup," Secret Service agent Derek Mendel said ruefully. "She must have stomped on our cell phones before she kicked them aside…Your weapon is also missing, Collins,"

"Damn it," Collins swore, and winced as agent Harrington applied a tourniquet to help stop the bleeding. 

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Are you done yet?" he growled. 

"The bullet is lodged in there, Collins," Harrington observed dryly, "which means you need to get your sorry hind end to a hospital ASAP."

"I don't give a bloody damn about myself right now," Collins snapped, "and I don't care if you're the only one here with any actual medical training, Harrington! I want you and Ashton to retrieve your weapons and _go find that woman!_"

"They crossed the road and entered the woods there," Ashton said, pointing to the area they had all last seen Henry and Sunday disappear into. 

"Remember that woman is armed _and _dangerous," Collins said, fighting a new wave of dizziness and nausea. "I urge you to exercise extreme caution."

Harrington and Ashton nodded gravely and began their pursuit.

"I suggest we drive up to the Britland's home," Collins said to Mendel.

"Negative," Mendel replied sternly, "I'm getting you to a hospital now. We stop at the first phone and call for back-up, okay?"

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Collins nodded, and climbed into the passenger seat, trying to shake the feeling that this time, he had indeed failed Henry and Sunday. 

Henry squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled heavily when he saw Sunday fall. The woman pulled him to her again and planted her lips on his. His revulsion was intense, but he knew he had to continue to make her believe he loved her. Still feeling the barrel of Collins' gun pressed against him, Henry dared not act. She at last pulled away from him and smiled. "I _knew_ you could do it, Henry…We're free! Now, let's go home!" She made Henry take the lead, still prodding him along with Collins' gun. 

Henry thought it odd that she did not demand he return her weapon to her, which he recognized to be a Smith and Wesson revolver. His mind raced. If he had the chance, would he use it against her? 

Her words echoed in his mind._ Let's go home. _She must think I'll take her to Drumdoe, Henry realised. How long can I delay her by taking a circuitous route before she suspects I have no intention of taking her there? I don't need to put Sims or any of the rest of my staff in harm's way…

I have to get her to put Collins' gun down, somehow, Henry thought desperately. I have to try to use her crazy affection for me to my advantage; make her trust me enough to drop the gun. He walked on for several minutes in silence, contemplating his next move carefully.

"You know," Henry said soothingly, "I do so want to love you more. I want to know more about you. What name should I call my new beloved?"

"I know, Henry," came her reply, "that living with that other woman made you forget everything. She was wicked for what she did to you, but it's over now and I forgive you. _My_ name is from a very special song. It was given to me by my father before he left me."

"What was the song?" Henry asked, hoping his voice sounded as if he were genuinely interested. 

"It was from the Beatles' song, '_Michelle_'. I know you must have heard of it, Henry," 

"I know it," Henry said.

She stopped walking. No longer hearing her footsteps behind him, Henry paused and glanced cautiously over his shoulder.

"Sing it, Henry," she commanded. "Look at me, and sing it."

Turning to face her, Henry took a deep breath and started in his mellow baritone voice:

"_Michelle, ma belle.  
These are words that go together well, my Michelle_…"

Michelle nodded and smiled. "Keep going, Henry, you sing so well."  
  
Henry continued. 

"_Michelle, ma belle.  
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble_." 

It's just a repeat of the first part in French, Henry remembered telling himself the first time he'd heard the song. So simple, yet so lovely. His thoughts suddenly drifted to the Christmas he and Sunday had an unexpected little guest – a child recently arrived from France who had managed to escape his incompetent abductor. Sunday had made Henry speak only French in an attempt to get him to open up to them, a ploy which had been disappointingly unsuccessful. 'Little' Jacques would be a teenager in a few short years, Henry realised.   
  
  
  
  


"_I love you, I love you, I love you. That's all I want to say.  
Until I find a way, I will say the only words I know that you'll understand_."

Henry forced himself to concentrate on the lyrics and staying in tune. He thought he noticed her closing her eyes, as if mesmerized by his singing. If he could use that to his advantage…

"_Michelle, ma belle.  
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble_."

Was she lowering Collins' gun? Henry saw her arm wavering. He gripped the weapon she had handed him tightly in his hand. One moment of distraction was all he needed…

"_I need you, I need you, I need you. I need to make you see,  
oh, what you mean to me. Until I do I'm hoping you will know what I mean. I love you._"

I need _you_ Sunday, and only you, Henry thought. And I know you know that. I will not allow this woman to destroy what we have.

"_I want you, I want you, I want you. I think you know by now.  
I'll get to you somehow. Until I do I'm telling you so you'll understand_."

Henry tried to put as much passion as he could muster into the words, hoping Michelle would give him an opportunity to catch her off-guard and disarm her… 

"_Michelle, ma belle.  
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble. I will say the only words I know, that you'll understand, my Michelle_."

With the last phrase, he softened his voice in a manner he hoped was appealing to her.

She exhaled softly, tilted her head backwards and closed her eyes, as if she was savouring every the last note. Knowing his chance had come, Henry swiftly cocked the hammer, aimed at her shoulder and pulled the trigger. To his utter dismay, the weapon did not fire. 

Michelle's eyes snapped open and blazed at Henry.

"What are you trying to do?!" she cried. "How _could _you?! I…_love_ you! I care for you! I even helped you get rid of that awful woman!"

Henry stared in disbelief as she reached into her jacket pocket and removed bullets – bullets that should have been in the chamber of the Smith and Wesson he was holding. He gave himself a mental slap. Of course. Those metallic noises he heard before. Michelle had been removing all the bullets. That's why she 'trusted' him with the weapon all along. 

"I left you one bullet to take care of her," Michelle said to him, her face a dark mask of bitterness. "I took the rest of them out…and now I'm glad I did."

Henry could feel her anger skyrocketing. 

"You betrayed me, Henry. You would have killed me, wouldn't you?!"

"No," Henry tried to placate her.

"You're lying! I trusted you, and now I see how wrong I was to think I could have helped you – to think I could have saved you." Her voice was acid.

"Michelle," Henry said soothingly.

"_Shut up!"_ she cried, her arm now steadily pointing Collins' gun at him. "Your lies won't help you!"

I'm out of options, Henry thought frantically, she's on the verge of shooting me! 

Michelle disengaged the safety on Collins' weapon. As if in slow motion, he saw her finger tighten on the trigger. Henry started to squeeze his eyes shut. Then a sudden cry pierced the air, followed by a heavy _thunk! _and Michelle collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Henry looked up and saw Sunday standing there, clutching a large rock in her hands. 

"Darling, what took you so long?" he managed to say, before they finally reached out for each other and embraced, weeping as the tensions of the night's events overwhelmed them.

***

"At first I couldn't believe Henry was actually pointing that _thing_ at me," Sunday was saying to Jack Collins, who had come through surgery with flying colours and was now resting in the recovery room. "But then I realised what he was attempting."

"My heart stood still when I pulled that trigger," Henry said. "I knew right away that if Sunday didn't make it look good, the game was up. As it is, you did a marvelous job playing 'dead', darling,"

"It was pretty miserable lying on that cold ground, Henry. Next time, you get to play the role of the dummy."

"On the contrary, Sunday," Henry said with amusement in his voice. "In fact, I ask that I never again hear you berate me about the inhumanity of fox hunting. If not for my expert marksmanship skills honed on such excursions, I might not have been able to make our little shooting drama so convincing."

Sunday eyed him warily. "Is that so?"

"In the worst case scenario," Henry said seriously, "I might even actually have hit you…I just thank God I didn't."

"Henry," Collins interjected, "I'm sorry…"

"Jack, this situation was beyond your control," Henry said. "You did everything you could, and even took a bullet in the arm trying to make sure nothing happened to us. But Sunday and I are both alive, and Michelle is in custody."

"I know…" Collins murmured, "but just the thought of the two of you out there at the mercy of that madwoman, I – I thought I had failed."

"But you _didn't_ Jack," Sunday said soothingly, "you didn't. Please, put it out of your mind and concentrate on recovering."

"I will," Jack promised.

Outside in the waiting room Agent Seitz greeted them warmly. "Am I ever glad this is over," he said. "I can't tell you how concerned we were when we walked into that…room…in Ms. Wilson's apartment. When we couldn't reach Collins and your butler informed us you hadn't arrived, we really started to panic."

"I have one question," Sunday said. "Do we have any idea why Michelle made it appear that Regina had written the first letter?"

"Michelle claims Regina 'stole her job'," Seitz answered. "She said she accepted a resume from Regina who was at the time simply handing them out at potential places of employment. The next week Dr. Walsh came to terminate Michelle's position. I guess she somehow thinks it was Regina's fault."

"I suppose Michelle thought she found the opportunity of a lifetime when Sunday walked into that office," Henry mused, "and she used that one visit to her advantage…But perhaps now she'll be able to get the help she needs."

Driving home after leaving the hospital, Sunday turned to Henry. "You didn't really shoot foxes, did you?"

"My father happened to think it was far more humane to shoot them than to let the hounds tear them to pieces," Henry replied. 

"Forget I asked," Sunday said with a look of revulsion. "Just promise me that we'll leave the gun and weapon-wielding to our Secret Service detail from now on, okay?"

Henry nodded. "Okay."

***

"So, does a girl have to threaten you with death before you'll sing for her?" Sunday asked teasingly as they prepared for bed that night.

"I will sing if the lady asks me politely," Henry said in response. "Do you remember when we were first married and everyone started calling you 'Sunday' after that ridiculous tabloid ran their headline?"

"I remember I hated it," Sunday recalled.

"And do you remember what I told you?"

"You said you liked it because it reminded you of the song '_Sunday Kind of Love_'."

"Exactly," Henry said, grinning. Taking a breath, he sang softly:
    
     _I want a Sunday kind of love_
    
    _ A love that will last past Saturday night_
    
    _ And I've got to know it's more than love at first sight_
    
    _                 I want a Sunday kind of love…_

END


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